


Castle's Real Estate.

by idlehandsdirtywork



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, I HATE MYSELF FOR DOING THIS, Katya is a contract killer, Loosely based in the 50s but I'm not keeping track of timelines, Noir AU, because this wouldn't get out of my head, but I've lurked for ages and thought fuck it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-08-27 14:39:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16704388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idlehandsdirtywork/pseuds/idlehandsdirtywork
Summary: In hindsight, Katya Zamolodchikvoa knew she was out of her depth. A small-time contract killer used mainly by wives who wanted their husbands taken care of, employees who wanted a manager taken out, anyone with enough cash and a small enough mouth to keep their damn lips shut. And a small enough target, of course. Which is why when the blonde bombshell trophy wife of the presidential candidate stepped through the doors of her ‘real estate’ office, she knew she was truly and utterly, fucked.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As stated in tags, I lurked for ages and this wouldn't leave my mind. Will this be a one shot? Maybe. I might continue it, but for now probably yes. Obviously this isn't based on the actual people AT ALL. Because that's kinda fucked. Look I just want lesbian content. I don't think I'm much of a writer, but as I said this wouldn't leave my mind. So here. 
> 
> Warnings for sexual harassment and some era common slurs

IN HINDSIGHT, Katya Zamolodchikvoa knew she was out of her depth. A small-time contract killer used mainly by wives who wanted their husbands taken care of, employees who wanted a manager taken out, anyone with enough cash and a small enough mouth to keep their damn lips shut. And a small enough target, of course. Which is why when the blonde bombshell trophy wife of the presidential candidate stepped through the doors of her ‘real estate’ office, she knew she was truly and utterly, fucked.

Mister Elliot Mattel, CEO of Mattel industries and candidate in the upcoming presidential election was a ruthless, cruel man. There was no other way you could make it to the top, in this world. Lie, cheat, steal, _kill_. He had big plans for the country, and a big enough pocket to sway anyone who thought the other way. Cold war was heating up, despite the name, and the entire country was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Katya was a second generation immigrant, but none of that mattered in the aftermath of ‘double ya double ya two’. A Russian last name and the language spilling from her lips, as her mother had taught her from birth, was enough to put a target on her back. And so she went by Katherine Castle. Castle, in Russian, translating to _Zamok_ , and she thought she was real clever for thinking that one up.   
She had never wanted to go into the business of contract killing, she swore. But Katya found herself wandering alone one night, four years ago, holding the hand of a nameless woman in a dark alley, and the need to defend herself was thrust upon her.   


_“Fucking dykes”_ , a man grunted as they walked past. Katya kept walking, knew that the way to stay alive was to shut up when needed, but the pretty thing on her arm was used to having her way all the time, and not used to confrontation.   
“Excuse me?” She started, turning around and in turn, turning Katya around, helplessly pulling on her arm in an attempt to get her to _just leave it_.   
“You heard what I said. We ain’t good enough no more, huh? We come back from the war to find our wives sleeping each other.”   
“I hardly-“ The man cut her off by standing up to his full height, showing that he had a clear advantage, both in height and frame, over the two petite women.   
“Fucking dykes. I ought to fuck it outta you, aye?” He laughed, stubbing his cigarette out on the wall behind him and spitting on the ground. “But I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t wanna touch something as filthy as you.”   
The woman was fuming, clenching her teeth and getting ready to hurl an insult back, but didn’t have the chance. The man pulled out a knife and pointed it towards her with fierce intensity.   
“Maybe I should just rid the world of you kinda faggots. You and your girlfriend, too.”   
“ _Let’s go, now”_ Katya urged, but the woman was frozen with fear.   
“You shy now, huh?” He reached his other hand out to feel her arm, where it was covered by the satin fabric of her best dress. She tensed, but remained motionless. His hand moved upwards, stroking her face. He spat right in it, and out of nowhere a sudden surge of energy rushed through Katya. She kicked him square in the kneecaps, her heels giving an edge to the otherwise weak kick. Out of surprise, he yelped back, and dropped his knife. Katya picked it up and shoved it towards him. He raised his arms, in a mock surrender, not believing she’d do it. After all, Katya was of slight build and wearing a bright red frock, her blonde hair curled to the latest fashion- hardly the profile of a killer.   
“I dare you, _invert_.”   
She didn’t know what hit her. Or maybe she did. But the man coughed as his own knife went right through him. She yanked it out and he gurgled, making disgusting sounds that she would never forget.

“Come on, we gotta go.” She grabbed the other woman’s arm, pulling her along, still holding the bloody knife.

Afterwards she found herself reflecting, alone in her small apartment, the woman from before long gone in a flurry of tears, telling herself that she was blind drunk and seeing things.   
_I oughta be sorry, right?_ Katya thought to herself. Her thoughts were a strange mixture of Russian and English, a perk of having grown up with the two languages taught to her simultaneously. It gave her thoughts an often awkward sentence structure, only adding to the fragmented nature of her mind.   
“I killed a man.” That felt good to say out loud. “I killed. A man.” She repeated it, holding the knife, the blood now dried.

If the police ever found the body and investigated it, Katya was never linked back to the crime. Obviously the other woman had supressed her involvement, and never confessed. After half a year had gone by, she was finally feeling like she didn’t need to watch her back at all times, scared a cop car would show up and haul her to prison.

It was easy, killing men. And damn easy to get a gun. Castle Real Estate was opened a year later, and with a few whispers in the right direction she managed to get a somewhat steady stream of clients. Not enough to give her a life of luxury, anything but. She was still in the same dingy apartment, still recycling the same clothes, still cutting her hair in the sink. But it was better than the diner she had worked at previously.

Castle was at the seventh floor of a building without an elevator, in the worst part of town, and invisible unless you knew the right people. Which is why Katya was dumbfounded when Beatrice Mattel walked through the doors.   
“You’re Yekaterina, right?”   
Another blow that Katya didn’t know how to handle. If knowing she existed wasn’t strange enough, knowing her actual name? Not even her mother called her that now, whispering _Katherine_ in her best impression of an American accent through phone lines that were probably tapped.   
“Katherine Castle.” She stammered.   
“Cut the shit, Zamo-lod-chi”   
“Just call me Katya.” Hearing Beatrice’s struggle with her last name, she felt the need to give her the nickname she used most often. Well, throughout her childhood, before Russia became a big red enemy of the west.   
“Right. I have a job for you.”   
“You want to sell a house?” Beatrice laughed, sitting down on the seat across from Katya’s desk. She carried an air of unapologetic ownership of herself, something which was rare. Katya herself still found herself meek in the face of direct confrontation, and she killed men for a living.   
“Yes, I want to sell a house. Which is why I went to someone without a real estate credential. Really? You want to be that inconspicuous that you won’t even follow up with the right way around your lie?”   
“Never been bothered about it before. The police don’t give a rat’s ass about this part of town.”   
“I’m not the police.” Beatrice was tall, and curvy. A picturesque model of a woman, not unlike the pinups that surrounded sleazy men’s walls. But she was infinitely more _real_ , with bigger breasts, bigger hips and a belly she wasn’t afraid not to cinch with whatever they were selling nowadays.   
“No shit. What do you really want?” Katya awaited the name of a housekeeper who had pinched some silver, a gossiping friend, anyone petty enough a woman might want gone.   
“Mr Mattel.” Beatrice said, with a tilt of her head, looking directly at Katya.   
“You’re funny. Now who’s the Betty who’s been stealing your jewellery?” Katya looked her in the eyes, which to her surprise were brown. Brown, and angry.   
“You heard me right, okay? I want him gone. I have the money.”   
“I don’t doubt you do,” Katya said, leaning forward in her chair, tapping on the chipped wooden desk with a frantic beat. “With the damn _presidential candidate_ as your husband. Which is why I think you’re fucking with me.”   
Beatrice leaned back in her chair, as if she was suddenly overwhelmed. Katya could see right through it.   
“He’s awful to me, okay? A right bastard. Whatever you can think, he’s done worse.” She looked down, into her white-gloved hands.  
“Why not a divorce? This isn’t the damn Catholic Church, you can cut the ties.”  
Beatrice scoffed. “Yeah, as he’s running? As if he’d let me. Let alone if he wins.”   
“Why me?”   
Beatrice suddenly stood up, the act of a broken woman gone. “Because I’ve had my eye on you for weeks. The best contractor in this place. Who would think of you as a threat? You’re a meek thing with a reason to stay out of trouble.”   
Katya looked up at her, and the slowly growing fire in her stomach only intensified. Beatrice held all the power here, and they both knew it.   
“Who told you about me?”   
“Why should I reveal my sources?”   
“I asked nicely.” Katya countered, a smirk overtaking her face.   
“Not like it’ll make a difference. Fine, Bob told me about you.”   
_Bob_? “How the hell do you know Bob?” Bob was the owner of a local jazz club, where lesbians and gay men alike liked to spend their nights. Katya was a frequent visitor, and close with Bob. He knew everything about her, from drunken ramblings to him at four in the morning, when she was the only patron left. She’d learnt since then to keep her vodka consumption to a minimum, and he’d stopped serving her, telling her that she’d ‘ _Blurt out your real line of work to the entire damn world, you fucking idiot’_.   
“You think I don’t go to my fair share of dyke nights?”   
“You’re a dyke?”   
“You never seen a femme?” Beatrice countered.  
“Never seen a femme that’s married to a fucking man.”   
Beatrice laughed, a laugh that would’ve been considered a scream if Katya didn’t see the smile on her face. Katya couldn’t help the grin that broke out on her own face.   
“Look, Beatrice-“   
“Call me Trixie.”   
“Okay, _Trixie_ ¸ if you know so much about me you know I go for small fry. The most notable person I’ve dealt with was the owner of a restaurant. And even then, I had to lay low for weeks afterwards.”   
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t know you were the right person for the job.” Trixie walked around the desk, to where Katya was sitting. She took Katya’s hand, kissing it lightly. “I know you’re just the person for me.” Katya’s mouth was dry, and her mind struggled to function properly as Trixie leaned forward, much into her personal space, to gently press a kiss on the corner of her lips.   
She took Katya’s hand, and guided her to a standing position, to kiss her lips properly. “Can I trust you?” She asked, sweetly.   
“Yes.” Katya breathed out.   
“Good. I can drop cash by tomorrow.” She placed her hand on the small of Katya’s back, slowly working downwards, until she was cupping her ass. “You’ll be a good girl, right?” Katya only nodded. Trixie squeezed. “I always knew you would.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the responses! i read and treasured every one. sorry for the lack of updates, this has been swimming around in my head since and i'd like to see where it goes.   
> ive studied a lot of ww2+cold war history so hopefully it's accurate because if it isn't i wasted a lot of time  
> ps the diner is a mix of an old american diner + paddys pub like greasiness so if you imagine danny devito in any of the scenes i wouldnt blame you and i highly encourage it  
> also katyas character (honestly im just using the names at this point, and the likeness to a very small extent) is very different here, but in my mind she's been moulded by being brought up through the red scare, the natural fire in her being dulled by the need to stay as inconspicuous as possible. so i hope you're okay with that. you could tell me to go fuck myself and id be like, oh cool, a response. so i guess do with this what you will.   
> oh also fun fact trixie's man's name was the name of the original ceo of mattel

KATYA WAS USED to dirty work. She worked in a sleazy diner before, scraping half eaten food from plates into a large, overflowing bin, before hauling the hot trash out into the cold air where the dumpsters were, out back of the diner. God knows what, or who, would be found there, a homeless person trying to catch a break from the unforgiving weather, a homeless person jacking one out, a family of raccoons, you name it. Then she'd wipe the garbage juice onto her stained work skirt, walk back inside and flash a smile to a patron who'd probably pinch what little ass she had before neglecting to tip her. She didn't complain. Complaints drew you attention, attention was no good at all. She didn't even have that great of a work ethic, just the desire to keep a roof over her head, maybe a nice dress or lipstick every once in a while.   
The dirty work never ended, really. It just shifted from literal dirt and grime to figurative- dirty money, dirty business. And still literal, in the case of close gunshot wounds when staging a suicide or 'unfortunate accident'.  In a lot of ways, it was worse. She was committing major tax fraud, and if someone felt like hunting her down she'd be toast. Not to mention the mass amounts of murder. But it was more satisfying. The people who came to her were desperate. Abused. Hard done by. She was a godsend to them.  
At least that's what she told herself to fall asleep at night. To fade out the sounds of someone's desperate last words, a grown man breaking into tears and asking for his mommy, before being killed. 

It wasn't snowing, but it was close. The newsman predicted sometime this week, but it was Thursday and no sign yet, so what did he know. Katya's coat was warm but unfashionable, and she liked it that way. Comfort over style, she thought, as she wore last seasons shoes. Truthfully, she did always dream of a nicer life. Maybe not riches, but enough to be comfortable. Comfortable and have some left over to splurge on herself, or maybe a woman. Which is why she gasped when she saw the fat stack of bills Trixie slammed onto her desk the next day. 

"I hope this makes you a little more interested." She purred, wearing a dark pink pencil skirt and a cream blouse. Her curls had stayed in place from the day before, probably held together by a scarf while she slept. While she slept, maybe in a nightgown or even nake-  
Katya stopped her thoughts from wandering into dangerous territory.  
"I don't know what you want me to say. Yes? I'll kill the highest profile man in the country?" Katya had cleared her head from Trixie's intoxicating charms she'd cast over her the day before, truthfully from her hand shoved down her pants and rigorously rubbing at her clit in desperation, thinking only of Trixie, while lying in bed trying to get to sleep.   
Trixie pouted. It was clear she wasn't used to people saying no to her.   
"Trixie-"  
"An accident." Trixie started, sitting her ass down on Katya's desk. Katya willed herself not to think any more about her ass. "A suicide. It's real stressful, y'know. Being the candidate for president. I could say he'd been withdrawing from me for weeks, spending a lot more time at the office, drinking a lot more."   
" _Trixie."_ Katya's voice was firm, and she looked Trixie dead in the eyes. "I'm not killing your husband. You gotta stop begging me."   
"He has a campaign in the most violent suburb next Wednesday. It'd be easy. Long range, right in the head. He always leaves his hotel room window open, likes the fresh air. I looked at his schedule. He's staying in Room 403, which you'd be able to get a clean shot from the building next over, which also happens to be another hotel. The Grand Palace. Room 408. Get a disguise, book the room under a fake name, pay in cash. I'll even cover hotel costs. One shot, and it's done."   
Trixie looked at Katya expectantly.   
"You've thought about this a lot."   
"You don't understand how desperate I am."   
It was the first time Katya had seen Trixie without any sort of act on. No seductive femme fatale, no dejected housewife, just Trixie. And just Trixie was determined, yet scared. An abundance of planning to will the anxiety to quell down, yet the nature of the planning only causing it to bubble further, until it spilled over in a desperate quiver of her lips, which she quickly covered with her hand.

"I'll do it." 

What else could she say. 

 

***

 

It seemed Trixie wasn't going to leave Katya alone. After Katya accepted, she gripped her hand and breathed a sigh of thanks. She didn't leave for hours, the sun dimming and night setting in. To Katya's surprise, she and Trixie got on rather well. A steady stream of rapport flowed out of them, naturally playing off each other and clicking in a way Katya never had done with a person before.   
When it was time to leave the office, Trixie grew quiet.   
"What's wrong?" Katya asked, finding herself genuinely concerned.  
"I can't go back there." Trixie stood up from the small couch in Katya's office she had been half lounging on. "Not knowing it's all set in stone."   
"Come to mine. It's not much, but I've got a couch you can sleep on."   
"A couch?" Trixie raised her eyebrow, a smirk spreading over her once pained features.  
"A couch, and if you keep that up a floor. We can grab dinner on the way." 


End file.
